


Until

by phrenitis



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrenitis/pseuds/phrenitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Donna and Harvey Kiss</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Season Two, _Sucker Punch_
> 
> Many thanks to anr for the prompt. And for joining me in this madness.

_“The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck.”  
\-- Ralph Waldo Emerson_

==

i.

It’s a package contract; buy two or walk home empty-handed.

“It's non-negotiable,” he says after he simply lays out the terms, unimpressed with the bargaining thus far.

She smiles sweetly when they leave. “Best deal in town.” 

==

When he finds her holed up in the office supply closet, she knows it’s because he’s already looked through every room on the floor first in an effort to locate her. Truly bad days are scarce, but she is completely one foot over the line today, her patience fraying, thoughts unorganized, and she’s already brought a new associate to tears without much effort at all.

She knows she’s late delivering the signed affidavits for the Larraway merger, and she’s never late when it comes to work for Harvey. Ever.

She stares despondently at the rack of highlighters. “You can never find the right shade of chartreuse.”

A cup of coffee appears in front of her – and it’s not just any coffee, but the coffee she half-jokingly refers to as wine that can only be found at the Persian café a few blocks over. It’s still hot, and she thinks about what that means.

“We’re a team, remember?” he says.

She cannot find even a single word in her expansive vocabulary to express, her breath caught up somewhere between her chest and throat, so she just turns to him, indebted.

He tilts his head at the door. “Now get your ass back to work.”

She kisses him on the cheek as she leaves.

==

ii.

"You have a tattoo?" Mike asks, a bit incredulous.

She doesn't mean to look in Harvey’s direction, but as soon as they share a glance she knows that the damage is done.

Mike's eyes bulge. "You _both_ have a tattoo?"

"It was a wager," she says nonchalantly.

"We won," Harvey adds.

It had been an unusual but proud moment - years ago now, but hardly forgettable.

Mike is speechless for once, to Donna’s amusement, his eyes wide and flicking back and forth between them like he's trying to reconcile a square peg in a round hole scenario.

"Don't hurt yourself, kid." She pats Mike on the arm.

==

Her locator powers are honed through years of observation, control of his schedule, subtle spying, and a natural talent that occasionally borders on the unnatural. It takes a well-placed call to another assistant in the network, and a couple of late nights digging through records so old they are still near the end of the queue for digital conversion, but she strikes gold with a few hours to spare.

Harvey is at the bar as she expects, looking dashing as he broods over a clean cut of bourbon.

The file catches his attention before she does, and he can't control his grin or the wicked look he gets in his eyes when he's feeling just a touch reckless. It's boyish and carefree, and an expression she hasn't seen since he first started out as an ADA.

"I was right?" he asks, needing to hear it.

"Of course." She hands him the file with a wink.

He stands, eagerly reviews the file until he finds what she has, and then looks at her, proud and happy. "I could _kiss_ you!"

She scoffs. "All talk, never any-"

- _action_. The word plays silently on her lips pressed against his, the kiss unexpected, soft, chaste - at odds with his hand so low on her hip, fingers digging tightly into her side, his body pressed firmly to hers. She forgets to breathe in, the moment lost then found in a long inhale when he pulls back slightly.

"I'm a closer, Donna," he says in a low tone, mouth brushing at her ear, his words a glissando down her neck. "The best damn closer in this city."

==

iii.

“Louis asked-“

“No.”

“Just for a day-“

“Not going to happen.”

“So I can say I tried?”

“Oh I was very nearly persuaded.”

==

She plays an adulterer extremely well, of course – a low cut dress, hair tousled about, eyes just wide enough to convey a calculated naivety – and has the mock trial case just about boxed up and ready to go for the defense after her “testimony”.

But it’s not quite a fitting end to the story, so she plants a long kiss on Harvey as they switch places on the stand. He doesn’t balk and plays his role just as he should - case tied up with a bow.

The prosecution scrambles. “We move to strike that from the record!”

Louis gapes at her for hours.

==

iv.

When dawn edges the bottom of the hotel window, white shade brilliant in the morning light, she feels him turn toward her, the bed dipping silently and creating a slow, inexorable, backward pull behind her navel.

_Eight years_ , she thinks, _two months and nineteen days_.

She doesn’t move – watches the rising sun as he studies her back, his fingers feather light as they trace their way down her spine. 

==

Late nights are trouble – coffee, files, a multi-million dollar case riding on a half a year’s plan – even Jessica leaves somewhere near midnight with a warning.

“That’s an order,” she corrects shortly after, heels on marble echoing as she finally walks away.

The office floor lies in shadow, soft light from the conference room pooling through the glass to form hazy right angles on the floor beyond. There is no one left save her and Harvey, a couple dozen boxes, and Jerry, the late night security guard, finishing his rounds somewhere on the east side of the building.

“I’m going with the Etro tie,” he says and looks up at her to see her reaction.

She makes a face.

“No? What’s wrong with that tie?”

“You wear it when you’re feeling confident,” she explains, and expects his nod of agreement. “It makes you arrogant.”

He frowns.

“Wear the Armani.”

He hesitates. “Not the grey –“

She gives him a look. “Resistance is futile.”

He glowers and starts working his way backward through the file in front of him, but she knows he’ll listen - over half his wardrobe exists only because she was in tow.

She’s careful not to watch him, busy with her own paper stack of forms and sticky notes, but as the night yawns in front of them, she feels his frustration build until he stands abruptly and walks away from the table. They’ll win the case, of this she has no doubt, but to win it, there has to be a sacrifice, and she has just the tiniest bit of fear that he won’t actually be able to let that go. It’s the inevitable conclusion, the cost of war, of which Jessica has already pointed out.

She joins him at the window where he waits with hands in his pockets, staring down at a city still moving even in the dead of night.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks as he studies her reflection in the glass.

He doesn't answer, and when he turns to her, she knows. It's in his expression, the way he sees her, _wants_ her, and it's one look on him she's never seen. Her pulse speeds up and she fleeting thinks about who he might normally call at half past one in the morning. It's not a thought of malice or jealousy or regret - she's no fool, not new at lust or even love - she knows him far better than she knows anyone else in the world.

He kisses her, moving her back against the window, and there’s nothing polite or gentle in the way his mouth crushes against hers. It’s raw, bruising, and filled with a hungry _need_ that sets liquid fire loose in her veins. The window ledge behind her serves as support to keep her upright, hair catching at the glass as her body eagerly rises to his.

She has his shirt untucked and pants undone by the time he’s hiked up her dress – one hand gripping her thigh, the other higher, running smoothly from hip to breast as his tongue meets hers again. His cologne, spicy and woodsy, and the faint earthy tones from the coffee flavoring his mouth mingle, the myriad sensations flooding her senses.

If she’s ever allowed herself to wonder, it’s not like anything she's thought up – not with possession written in fingers so brazen as they roam her skin leaving her arching beneath them for more, not with the night's stubble on his jaw raking her neck as his mouth follows the trail wet and hot, not with him hard in her palm as she kicks her underwear to the side and helps guide him in.

He moves to a rhythm she matches as his hand squeezes her knee, slides under to angle her leg higher - leverage and friction meeting in waves. She keeps an arm against the window to steady herself - hand flat on the glass, cool and solid under her touch - and accidentally bites her lip when she comes. The flash of heat ripples through her, hot flaring at the edges and a slow wash of warmth in its wake as she licks her lip and it tastes of copper. Harvey follows a few strokes behind, his fingers tightening their hold on her, his breath short, but he doesn’t make a sound, and she finds this most impressive of all. Once again a passing thought catches up to her – wanting her name on his lips if they do this again.

Harvey is watching her, not wary or hesitant, but with a sort of satisfied happiness that she’s pretty sure she’s mirroring. He kisses her softly, draws it out to enjoy the moment.

She snakes her hands up his shirt. “Feeling better?”

He wins the case; no doubts at all.

==

v.

"Your jacket, your coffee, your files." She proffers the items in that order. "Your keys."

He looks at her gratefully, and it tells her everything he's thinking.

"And don’t forget it," she says, waves him down the hall.

==

She’s true to her word, still in his bed and tangled up in his sheets when he wakes. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her snug against him, and she’s amused by the protest in her sorely abused muscles.

“First day back,” he says, lips pressing light kisses to her shoulder.

She hums agreement. “I wouldn’t want to be late.”

His mouth moves to the hollow of her throat, his hand sliding to her lower back, curving down her hip. “At least your boss is understanding.”

She smirks at that. “Understanding?”

He looks up. “Tolerant?”

“Still the same thing.”

“Handsome.”

She rolls her eyes as he kisses her forehead, her mouth, then with a decidedly lazy grin, shifts lower to find her breasts.

“You’re going to be late,” he states, nips her skin with his teeth. Then he’s pushing her gently to her back, tongue circling down over her stomach, moving lower.

He’s right. She’s late to work every day for the next week.

 

- _Fin_


End file.
